


bandaid

by zeraparker



Series: the one he can't deny [4]
Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Crying, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 19:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20069437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: bandaid/ˈbandeɪd/ nouna temporary solution, especially an unsatisfactory one.____________Andre walks up to him mutely. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to know what Carl has to say – likely enough some message Jev wants to have related without having to talk to Andre himself; possibly more accusation, the whole conversation with Jev all over again, another plea for him to stay in the team, another round of negotiations. He doesn’t want to allow Carl to talk, to make him feel guilty. And he doesn’t want to hear his goodbyes. Losing Jev is hard enough already, he’s managed to so far push away any thought about losing the rest of them at the same time: the whole team, his engineers, Charlie, Lorene too, and Carl.





	bandaid

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaand another one in this series, because I'm in love with this pairing and I just want to roll around in the hurt/comfort involved. Enjoy!
> 
> Set before between Bern and NewYork.

A sleek black rental car with a French licence plate is sitting in the driveway next to the white Porsche which was delivered the day before. Andre stops, both hands clenching around the handles of his bicycle as he waits for the gate to open wide enough for him to enter the yard, then hits the control panel to close it behind himself as he pushes the bicycle up to the house, the gravel crunching beneath the thin soles of his cycling shoes.

He isn’t expecting anyone but his mother who had asked to use the fridge in the pool house for some food she was preparing for a party she was invited to later that week and pick up Max for the afternoon. It’s not her car though, and for a long moment Andre wonders who drove her, whether she’s got visitors. Irritation scratches at the edge of his mind, the carefully blank headspace he’d chased on his six hours bike ride threatening to shatter. He’s got half a mind to just turn around, head back onto the road and wait until they are gone, exile himself from his own home. But he’s tired, his body screaming for rest, his brain on the edge of a headache from the brightness all morning that even his sunglasses stopped helping with a while back.

And it’s _his_ house, for fuck’s sake.

Andre pushes the bike along the side of the house to the garage. The gate opens under another push of a button for him to wheel it inside, hang it on the hooks mounted on the wall. He strips off his helmet, leaving it with the bike, unzips the top of his shirt. His body is radiating heat now there is no headwind to cool him down, his skin feeling slick with sweat. He left for the ride early this morning, eager to return before the worst midday heat, but the sun is harsh already, unforgiving and he can’t wait to escape from it.

A shower. A nap. Then maybe a swim in the pool later. That’s what he wants, and he isn’t letting anyone deter him from it in his own four walls.

The garage door is moving shut behind him as he returns to the yard, walking around the house towards the veranda from where he can hear the occasional bark that tells him that Max hasn’t been picked up. He half expects his mother and whoever she brought along to walk around the garden, or inside the house showing off the gorgeous design Andre himself is so proud of, even more so every time he hears his mum’s pride at showing off what her son achieved. It makes his heart swell at the thought that he could make her happy, that all the sacrifices of the last decades paid off in at least some way.

What he doesn’t expect is to almost be hit by yellow, fuzzy death from above and then Max barrelling past him down the stone steps to chase after the tennis ball into the lower areas of the garden, barely sparing Andre a glance.

“Fuck! Sorry!”

Andre turns at the loud shout coming from the veranda. Carl has pushed himself up from the bench he’d been sitting on in the shade of the roof overhang, an alarmed expression on his face.

“You okay?”

Andre closes his eyes, takes a couple steadying breaths, only opening them again when Max is slinking around his legs, dropping the tennis ball at his feet and noses along Andre’s thigh, licking over the salty skin of his shins. Andre nudges him away gently, leaning down to pick up the ball, tosses it down into the garden again. Only then does he look up to where Carl is still standing. “Is Jev here too?”

Carl shakes his head. “No.”

Andre nods, then starts up the stairs to the veranda.

“Your mother let me in, she found me outside the gate. You didn’t answer your phone, so I was waiting,” Carl explains as Andre walks up to the door, pushes it open to go inside. He holds himself against the door jamb with one hand as he unzips is cycling shoes, leaving them by the door before he pats into the kitchen. The water he takes from the fridge is ice cold and soothing on his tongue. He empties half the bottle in one big gulp.

Carl is watching him from where he’s followed him into the house, leaning wearily against the door. “I wanted to check on you.”

Andre shakes his head. “I need a shower.” He averts his eyes, leaving the water bottle on the counter as he heads for the stairs.

“Do you want me to leave?” Carl asks, and Andre stops at the bottom of the stairs, the layout of the house having made him turn the other way. He looks up, meeting Carl’s eyes past the staircase to the upper floor.

Does he want him to? Andre doesn’t know. He shakes his head again. “I need a shower,” he repeats, the only clear thought he can form right now.

When he gets out of the shower half an hour later, he’s got a plan. Andre towels himself dry haphazardly, slinging the damp towel around his middle. He doesn’t care about the droplets falling from his hair unto his shoulders. They’ll evaporate quickly anyway, the unforgivable heat having set in. Carl has fled the heat too. Andre finds him on the couch in the living room, scrolling idly through his social media feeds. He puts the phone down when he notices Andre approaching.

“Feeling better?” he asks, sitting up slightly to better face whatever Andre is going to throw at him.

Andre walks up to him mutely. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to know what Carl has to say – likely enough some message Jev wants to have related without having to talk to Andre himself; possibly more accusation, the whole conversation with Jev all over again, another plea for him to stay in the team, another round of negotiations. He doesn’t want to allow Carl to talk, to make him feel guilty. And he doesn’t want to hear his goodbyes. Losing Jev is hard enough already, he’s managed to so far push away any thought about losing the rest of them at the same time: the whole team, his engineers, Charlie, Lorene too, and Carl.

“Don’t talk,” Andre pleads and undoes the knot holding up the towel around his waist, letting it drop to the floor. Carl’s eyes travel down his body, momentarily distracted, and Andre uses his lack of protest to take the last two steps to the couch, pushing himself onto Carl’s lap, straddling his thighs.

Carl looks up, his mouth opening in search for words, but Andre cups his jaw with both hands, pressing his thumb over Carl’s lips. “Please don’t say anything,” he murmurs and then strokes his thumb to the corner of Carl’s mouth to replace it with his lips.

They don’t stay on the couch. Andre wants a fuck, a real one, one that makes his toes curl and his brain shut down even if only for the brief seconds of orgasm. When Carl leans to the side, meaning to drag Andre down onto the cushions with him, Andre shifts away, getting back to his feet. He holds out his hand, and Carl doesn’t argue, reaching for him and allows Andre to pull him to his feet, to lead him across the room and up the stairs to his bedroom. He’s placed a bottle of lube on the bedside table in preparation, no mind for fumbling now. He wants this, easy and quick like it’s always been between them. No condoms, either. They haven’t done it without yet, and Carl notices the lack of them, raises a curious eyebrow at Andre.

Andre bites his lip. “Okay?” he asks, watching Carl’s reaction closely, how his jaw twitches, his pupils dilate slightly. Carl doesn’t answer with words, just as Andre had begged him downstairs, instead pulls Andre close with the hand still holding his, wrapping his other arm around Andre’s shoulder and embraces him tightly, claiming his mouth.

Andre almost sobs with relief when he sinks onto the bed, watches Carl make quick work of his half-way unbuttoned shirt, tossing it aside before he crawls onto the bed, over Andre’s body, bearing him down into the mattress. He straddles Andre’s thighs, looking down at him, taking him all in, and Andre forces himself not to look away, to meet Carl’s eyes fiercely. If this is the last time, Andre wants to remember everything, wants for Carl to take this with him when he returns to Paris, when he returns to Jev’s side. The thought makes him bite the inside of his cheek, reach out to curl his fingers behind Carl’s belt and tug him closer, tug him down for a hot, searing kiss. They’re both breathless by the time they pull apart. Carl is staring down at him, reaching up to tug his own hair behind his ear as it has tumbled into his face. He smells of summer, of the warm leather of a new car’s interior and the musk of sweat. Andre lifts his head off the pillow, nosing along the soft stubble of his beard at his jaw to his neck, licking over the hot, salty skin there.

Carl rolls his hips down, moaning quietly as his hard cock rubs against Andre’s thigh through the fabric of his shorts and underwear. Andre bucks up in turn, basking in the urgency of their combined arousal. It’s just the kind of distraction he craves, even as his mind wanders back to the last body he’s felt against his in this room, in this bed. Jev is still haunting his dreams, the heat of his skin hovering over Andre’s body, the brush of his lips almost tangible every time Andre lies back in the pillows, making sleep a hard to obtain treasure. It had chased him from his own bed more than once over the past couple nights, finding himself curled up on the couch downstairs instead; he hasn’t returned to the guest bedroom since Jev left, unsure whether to find the bed used at all, whether any evidence of Jev is lingering behind in the form of ruffled sheets or the scent of his hair clinging to a pillow case, a left-behind sock or toothbrush in the bathroom. It’s the urge to erase the memory of Jev’s body above him, to override it with the possibility at hand, that makes Andre push at Carl’s hips to give himself more room, to twist onto his stomach.

“Like this,” Andre pleads, reaching out to curl his arms around a pillow, bucking up his arse to rub against Carl’s crotch in invitation as he looks over his shoulder, and yes, it’s close enough, the way Carl is braced above him, the slightest frown on his brow that Andre ignores.

Carl shifts his weight to free one hand to stroke down over Andre’s neck, massage at the tense muscles. He lowers himself carefully onto Andre, holding him down with his body weight, his hips grinding lazily against the swell of Andre’s arse as Carl leisurely explores his back with lips and fingers. It’s easy to lose himself in the simple pleasure of body heat and touches, and Andre feels himself unwind slightly, each exhale aided by Carl’s weight bearing him down further into the bed, until he feels like he’s drowning. The pillow he’s buried his face in has become damp from his own hot breath, making it hard to inhale. He’s only dimly aware of Carl’s weight shifting to the side, Carl’s hand disappearing for a moment to come back cool and slick as he strokes his fingers up and down between Andre’s arse cheeks, playing over his hole. Andre makes a keening noise that gets lost in the pillow, canting his hips up for more. He scrambles for leverage, but Carl still has one heavy leg slung over Andre’s thighs pinning him down, and Andre feels powerless to struggle. He bites into the pillowcase, thrusting his hips back as much as he can, trying to convey his eagerness. Carl’s other arm worms its way beneath Andre’s chest to easier hold him against himself, and Andre feels suspended between those points of contact, hears Carl’s heartfelt groan when he works first one, then another finger into Andre’s body.

“Hey, you okay? You’re shaking.”

Carl’s murmured words drag Andre from where his thoughts wandered, making him aware of the trembling in his own limbs. He bites down on his lip, trying to get a grip on himself, a small groan escaping him when he feels Carl shift next to him, using his hold on Andre to try and roll him onto his side. Andre tries to avoid it, keeping his face pressed against the pillow for as long as Carl’s insistent touch allows, blinking blearily against the midday light when he is pushed onto his side. Carl cups his cheek gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against Andre’s jaw.

“Don’t hide from me, please,” he asks quietly, then leans in, kissing Andre softly. Andre nods, not turning his head away, though he closes his eyes, at least a small shield against Carl’s intense scrutiny. “Do you want to stop?”

Andre’s eyes snap open at that. “No,” he gasps, leaning in to renew their kiss. Just the idea of another rejection, in this same bed and room and house, is enough to make his chest seize painfully. “No, please,” he repeats against Carl’s mouth, his desperation making him surge forward, press his whole body firmly against Carl’s making sure he can feel Andre’s hard dick. Carl is still wearing his shorts, the rough fabric making Andre groan at the friction. He reaches down with one hand, fingers fumbling clumsily to undo Carl’s belt lest he change his mind. He worms his hand into the open front of Carl’s shorts as soon as he’s got the buttons undone, grasping eagerly for his cock, glad to feel him hard and straining into Andre’s palm, Carl’s hips bucking forwards almost against his will.

“Fuck, okay. But slow down,” Carl says, rolling them until he’s on top, bracing himself against the bed with one hand. He reaches between them to grasp Andre’s wrist, pull his hand from his shorts and pin it to the mattress next to his head. Andre groans, fingers twitching but not fighting the firm grip Carl has on his wrist. “We’ve got all the time in the world, okay?” Carl says and leans back down, and the kiss that follows is deep and slow and designed to make Andre lose his mind. He surrenders, his mouth open and pliant under Carl’s assault, the fight-or-flight-reflex slowly starting to seep out of him the longer Carl’s firm grip on his hand lasts, the longer Carl doesn’t move away, a steady, sure presence above him, and Andre’s legs splay open easily when Carl shifts to kneel between them, fingers of the hand that isn’t holding down Andre’s arm ghosting over his stomach, down to his crotch and thighs, simple caresses that make Andre roll up his hips for more quickly. Carl has to stop kissing him shortly to retrieve the lube that got pushed aside in their tumbling, but then he’s back to fingering Andre’s arse, working him open efficiently.

“You’re gorgeous like this, you don’t even know,” Carl murmurs, almost reverently when he eventually sits back to push his shorts and underwear down his arse and thighs, struggling out of them without ever taking his eyes off Andre.

Unsure what to do with those words, Andre just reaches out for him, eager to have Carl back on top of him, _in _him. He wants this, he’s craved for this, a repeat of their first time fucking not so long ago under Jev’s eyes in Paris, and Andre doesn’t want to think of him now, but his mind goes there anyway, the person that’s become an axis for his own life over the past two years, spinning around Jev, revolving around him until he’s become dizzy, until he didn’t even know what Andre himself wants anymore. If he blinks, he can almost fathom Jev sitting in the chair by the window, he can almost hear the crude noises Jev had made getting off on watching them, jerking himself, and fuck, that night he had seemed so close, barely an arm’s length away; now he isn’t just in another city, he could be on another continent, another planet, and Andre is still spinning. He just finally wants to _stop_.

“Please,” Andre groans, grateful when Carl allows himself to be pulled down onto Andre again. Andre laces their fingers together, lifting their joined hands back over his head, the movement pulling his body taut. He wraps his legs around Carl’s waist, pulling him close and then the firm pressure of Carl’s cock is against his arse, breaching him, thrusting into him with one forceful shove that knocks the air out of Andre’s lungs. Fuck it feels good.

Carl fucks into him strong and slow, a lazy roll of his hips that has Andre groan with every thrust. His fingers flex uselessly, and Carl changes his hold on them, shifting Andre’s arms so they’re crossed at the wrists, making it possible to hold both his wrists in one hand, push them down into the pillows.

“You like this?” he asks, the words murmured against Andre’s jaw in between bites and messy kisses.

Andre moans hoarsely, his flexing fingers making the sinew jump in his wrists, but doesn’t struggle against the hold, giving himself over to it. “Yes, please,” he keens, his hips straining to rub his cock against Carl’s pelvis, but only managing to create the barest of frictions, more a tease than satisfaction. “Fuck, more,” he groans out, frantic in his need to come.

Carl dips his head, biting at Andre’s lip, licking away a droplet of sweat that’s gathered there. It is too hot to fuck like this, with whole body contact, their skin tacky with sweat and sticking to each other. Carl strokes the knuckles of his hand that isn’t still holding Andre down along his jaw, down to his collar bone. He follows the trail with his lips, licking the hot skin there, biting at the protrusion of his clavicle, before he returns to kissing Andre’s mouth, thrust his tongue between Andre’s lips in the same rhythm his cock is pushing into Andre’s arse, eating up the small noises he makes. Carl’s palm strokes down his flank in one hot, slow motion that makes Andre arch into it, before settling on Andre’s hip in a firm grip that steers them to shift the angle until-

Andre scrunches his eyes shut, breaking the kiss when he feels the pleasure speer through him to draw panting breaths, his legs tightening around Carl’s waist to hold him right there, to keep him thrusting just like that, every new push of his cock against Andre’s prostate making a wave of stinging pleasure rush through his nerves. He shudders, the heat that’s been accumulating inside him going up another notch, new sweat breaking out over his skin.

“Carl, fuck, _please_, make me come, make me come,” he babbles in between harsh breaths, the words slurred and almost too quiet to make out, his hips bucking up, his cock so hard in between their bodies. His fingers flex again, the urge to reach down, close his own fist around his dick and chase orgasm overwhelmingly strong, but Carl’s grip on his wrists is keeping his hands securely above his head, and fuck, he w_ants_.

“Come for me, come like this,” Carl says, his grip on Andre’s hip firm, not budging, making sure every single one of his thrusts hit Andre just where he needs it. It’s overwhelmingly good, almost too much, and Andre bites his lip harshly, his whole body straining for release that’s still elusively out of reach.

Andre shakes his head in irritation, drawing in a harsh breath, feeling frustration claw at his fragile headspace. “I can’t, I can’t, please,” he mumbles, feeling the words clog up his throat. He wants that orgasm, fuck, he’s fucking earned it, but he needs the touch to his cock, he can’t reach the peak like this, it’s not fair. The feeling is all too familiar, and Andre tries to push the thoughts away, back into their Pandora’s Box inside his mind, but they’re out now like a Jumping Jack, surprising even himself; that frustration he’d felt in Hongkong when the win he’d worked so hard for, he’d deserved, was wrenched from under his fingertips; the complete loss of control, the sheer powerlessness. That punch to the gut when Jev had introduced Lorene to him, the infatuation shining in his eyes every time he looked at her, the way she inserted herself into the little bubble Jev and Andre had created around themselves. It had shown the boundaries of what wishful thinking had Andre project all his longing and loneliness onto his teammate. Jev’s body so close to his only a few days ago in this very bed.

All of that spills over now, and the next noise he makes is a low whine as the tears he’s been fighting slip down the sides of his face to soak into the pillow cover.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Andre barely registers the words, barely registers Carl letting go of his wrists. He doesn’t pull his hands down, keeps them above his head in surrender as he feels himself tremble with every shaky breath he draws, still murmuring _please_ and _I can’t_ with every exhale, his legs so tightly around Carl’s hips that they restrict his movements, keep him deep inside Andre’s quivering body.

“I got you, shh, it’s okay,” Carl murmurs, sliding one arm behind Andre’s neck to draw him close. Andre buries his face against Carl’s shoulder, finally moving his own arms to return the hug, to cling to his body above him, drawing Carl’s weight fully on top of himself. He can barely breathe, everything is too hot and too close, his body shaking like a leaf. He groans, feeling the heavy pressure of Carl’s pelvis against his sensitive cock, almost painful with arousal. Then Carl’s fingers worm their way between their bodies to wrap around his dick, and everything whites out into burning pleasure around him.

Carl wakes from his doze to the warm orange glow of late afternoon sun having found a gap in the curtains. He sighs, his breath stirring the soft, sweat damp hair at Andre’s nape. They’re sharing a pillow, though Andre has rolled away from him facing the other side of the room. They aren’t quite spooning, both too overheated to be comfortable with too close contact, but Carl’s hand is resting on Andre’s flank, fingers spread wide. He moves his fingertips, feeling the soft hairs along Andre’s stomach under them, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

It’s a fragile tranquillity. He can feel the beginnings of a headache behind his eyes, tries to remember the last time he’s drank some water, knowing it can’t have been enough in this heat. He can’t hold back another sigh, moving his head slightly forwards to nose through the hair at Andre’s neck, breathing him in, and wonders when he’s turned into such a sap. He’s going to blame it all on Jean-Eric, on that protective streak he awakened in him years ago, that somehow without Carl knowing has extended to the man he’s lying in bed with now. Before that, all kinds of strings-attached had made him leave with an easy smile and an even easier _no, thank you_ on his lips; even the semi-permanent relationships he’d lead over the years had been in a constant state of flux and adjustment that had kept them fresh and interesting or easily disposed of. Fucking hell, he’s so out of his depth here.

With a groan, Carl forces himself to roll onto his back, lifting his hand away from Andre’s enticing skin to rub it over his face, through his hair. Fuck, he feels gross, sticky all over. He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, but Andre doesn’t make any signs of waking, so he quietly rolls out of bed. He picks up his discarded underwear, looking around the room spotting the sink in the bathroom area of the open layout of the room. There are towels hung over a rack on the wall, some still damp from Andre’s shower earlier. Carl picks a clean one, wetting it under the faucet and cleans himself up rudimentary before putting his underwear on. A glance back at the bed shows Andre hasn’t moved, so he silently leaves the room, taking a deep breath he lets out through his teeth once he’s on the landing outside the room, trying to get his bearings back.

The silence of the house around him scratches on Carl’s nerves. He’s used to being in strange surroundings, a different hotel every week, often enough places he’s never been to. He’s grown up with the ability to adjust to anything at short notice, to never feel out of place. But he’s used to noise, if not that of a race track then that of a busy city around him, or at least of a crowd of people. Here in Gordes, there isn’t even the steady tick tock of a clock on the wall. The patter of his bare feet on the polished concrete floor seems abnormally loud in the vast layout of the house. He traces his fingers along the painted stone as he walks down the stairs.

To Carl’s relieve, at least half the fridge is stocked with bottles of water. He picks up one of the bottles, unscrewing the cap and drinks greedily from it. He leans against the kitchen counter, looking out through the windows onto the bright landscape outside. The sun has moved far enough along the horizon not to be blinding anymore, but its heat is still lingering in the flickering air rising from the stones that pave the veranda and part of the garden. Not a single cloud is in the sky, and he takes another mouthful of the blessedly cold water, feeling the drought outside just looking at it. He stares at the hills for a long time; it’s beautiful, he can’t deny it, but more picture perfect than he expected Andre to appreciate; the kind of place to spend a couple of weeks at each summer, but somewhere to stay? There’s a melancholy clinging to the purple hues of lavender he can see in the distance, a solitude in the gnarly branches of old olive trees grasping for the endless blue above that feels too heavy for his mind to linger on, too complex to choose as a backdrop to live in.

Turning away from the window, Carl decides there’s enough complexity waiting for him inside the house. He finishes the water bottle, then picks up another from the fridge, considering the food too, but he isn’t really hungry, not yet. Retracing his steps, he returns upstairs only to find Andre blinking blearily. His usually so meticulously styled hair is a mess, worse than after an hour under a helmet. He’s still naked lying on the bed, and Carl allows his eyes to wander over the endless expanse of sunkissed skin, doesn’t mind Andre seeing him stare.

Walking around the bed, Carl fluffs up the pillows one-handed before he climbs back into the bed, leaning back against the headrest. He looks at the expanse of Andre’s back, then takes the water bottle and presses it against Andre’s neck. Andre curses, almost jerks away, but then relaxes back into the cold. He holds out his hand, and Carl hands over the water bottle for Andre to uncap, take a sip. With a sigh Andre rolls back, the long line of his spine pressing against Carl’s side. He cranes his neck to look back and up at Carl. His neck is damp from the condensation on the water bottle, the water heating quickly between their bodies where Andre’s neck rests against Carl’s flank. Carl lifts his hand, carding his fingers through Andre’s messy hair to return it to at least some orderly fashion, his other hand settling high on his chest, thumb rubbing along the ridge of Andre’s collarbone. He wets his lips, trying to figure out how to start what he wants to say, but Andre beats him to it.

“Go on, tell me,” Andre prompts, his voice quiet, devoid of emotion. He isn’t meeting Carl’s eyes, staring resolutely at the other side of the room.

Carl’s fingers twitch against Andre’s chest. “Tell you what?”

Andre shrugs, but the nonchalant gesture feels forced. “Whatever Jev wants you to tell me. Isn’t that why you are here?” He falls silent for a moment, but before Carl has had time to answer, more words burst from his lips unchecked. “He could have called, you know. Or written me a message. He doesn’t need to get _you_ involved to deliver whatever he wants me to know. Fuck.”

Carl twists his fingers into Andre’s hair, using the grip to gently pull his head back to rest against his shoulder against the tension in Andre’s body. “Jev doesn’t know I’m here.” Andre makes a noise of startled surprise. “He thinks I’m already on my way to New York. Where I’ll go to from Marseilles, tomorrow.”

“You’re not flying out with him on Monday?” _Not flying out with us_, is what Andre wants to say, Carl knows. Their flights and hotel rooms had been booked weeks ago along with the promo stuff planned for the days ahead of the final race weekend; Jev had called him late at night after his return to Paris, slurring down the phone line to make Carl change the plans, make sure whatever PR stuff Jev will be involved in New York will work without Andre’s presence. _He’s a traitor, he’s not part of the team anymore_, Jev had told him over the phone, drunk and devastated. But those words were meant for Carl’s ears, not Andre’s, so Carl swallows them down, knows fully well the impact hearing them out loud would have on Andre, even though he’s sure Andre knows exactly how Jev is taking the whole thing.

Carl shakes his head. “No, I’m meeting with friends before the whole mayhem starts.” He falls silent, trying to order his thoughts. His fingers absently start combing through Andre’s hair, trace the shell of his ear. He exhales deeply. “I think you’ve made the right decision,” he eventually says. “If I was your manager, not Jev’s, I would have encouraged you to take the Porsche offer, too.”

Andre doesn’t reply, just keeps staring at the other side of the room. Then he suddenly turns around, the whole length of his still naked body pressed alongside Carl as he buries his face against Carl’s neck, his arm slung over Carl’s waist in a half hug. He can feel Andre tremble anew, uses his fingers to pet Andre’s neck and arm, small soothing motions.

“I told him I love him.”

Carl can’t help flinching at the words, is grateful that Andre’s face is resting against his neck, unable to see whatever expression Carl is sure must be on his face then. His fingers twitch against Andre’s neck. God, he wants to shake him.

“I needed him to know.” Andre’s voice is quiet, muffled against Carl’s skin. He can feel the tip of Andre’s tongue when he wets his lips. “I just… if I hadn’t, I’d always wonder whether him knowing would have changed anything.”

“That was brave of you.” He can’t even imagine it, telling someone when he’d already know that the other person was in love and happy with someone else.

Andre snorts derisively, his palm stroking up Carl’s chest to rest below his throat. “Feels more pathetic. Stupid.”

“You’re neither,” Carl reassures him. They fall silent, both hanging after their own thoughts. “Do you want to come to New York with me? Tomorrow?” Carl eventually asks. “I feel like you need a change of scenery. Your house is gorgeous, but you need to get among people, clear your head.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Andre says after a long pause of deliberation.

“You won’t,” Carl answers, dipping his head to press a kiss to Andre’s hair. He doesn’t expect Andre to lift his head to meet his eyes, can’t read at all what Andre is thinking, catching him by surprise when Andre leans in a presses their lips together with a murmured _thank you_.


End file.
